Grey
The chaotic symphony of war raged far below, a deafening tapestry of screams, clashing steel, and the guttural roars of corrupted mana beasts.
Sylvie's powerful wingbeats carried us swiftly through the smoke-choked sky, the Wall a diminishing monolith behind us, the battered expanse of the Beast Glades stretching like a festering wound ahead.
My plan—a desperate gambit born of Corvis's analysis—was already in motion.
The Lances, scattered like shards of light against the encroaching darkness lf the battle, were doing their part. Varay's glacial fury carving a path east nearer to the Wall, Bairon's lightning striking south, Mica's earth-shaking defense anchoring the west, and Alea… Alea pushing north.
Each engagement, each desperate hold, was a diversion, a calculated sacrifice to fracture the Alacryan advance, to isolate the true heart of the enemy.
'Grey, are you sure about this?' Sylvie's voice resonated in my mind, a current of worry beneath her unwavering support. The battlefield unfolded beneath us, a grim panorama of struggle and death.
Tiny figures locked in brutal combat, plumes of smoke marking spell impacts, the flashes of Alacryan decay magic.
Yes. Deadly sure. The certainty was cold iron in my soul. Corvis, had diagnosed Dicathen's fatal flaw he couldn't repair with brutal clarity.
Unity, innovation, even the Lances' power… it was all scaffolding against a hurricane. The true vulnerability laid in the monstrous apex predators Agrona wielded like scalpels.
A single Scythe, unchecked, could unravel the entire defense, shattering morale and breaking formations like rotten wood. Corvis had strengthened the body, but the head remained terrifyingly exposed.
He was still a kid, fighting a monster who had honed cruelty into a science over centuries. Agrona's legions were forged in labs of torment, their power bought with oceans of suffering, a perverse advantage no amount of youthful could fully negate, even if it was Corvis.
That was where we came in. Sylvie and I. This body Agrona had crafted as a vessel, this lessuran form he'd stuffed my soul into for his twisted Legacy project… I would turn it into his ruin. It was the ultimate joke. His weapon, repurposed against him.
"You have reached white core at an impressive pace. Your lessuran body is perhaps better than I anticipated." Wren Kain's gruff, grudging praise echoed in my memory.
The Titan's training grounds in Epheotus had been a crucible. Reaching white core within months wasn't just impressive; it felt like cracking open a dam holding back an ocean of latent power Agrona had baked into this form.
And Wren, despite his protests about not being a trainer, had been terrifyingly serious. Brutal drills, relentless mana manipulation, combat scenarios designed to push me to the edge of annihilation and back.
'Grey, I can feel the Scythe.' Sylvie's mental voice held a new edge, a dragon sensing another apex predator.
Me too. The signature was unmistakable. A furnace of violent power radiating malice like heat from a forge. Dragoth.
The memory of him was a sour taste in my mouth—his booming, idiotic laughter at jokes only he found funny, the casual cruelty, the brute strength untempered by any semblance of intellect.
Taegrin Caelum's sole mercy had been that Cadell, not this oaf, oversaw our training. Seeing Nico twisted by Agrona's lies under Cadell's cold gaze had been hell enough; enduring Dragoth's brand of stupidity might have broken me sooner.
From our altitude, the battlefield resolved into a grim mosaic. Tiny figures clashed, spells bloomed and died, smoke drifted in greasy tendrils. And then, in a cleared area near the heart of the Alacryan forward camp, a larger figure stood motionless. Not directing, not fighting… waiting. A dark blot against the churned earth, radiating impatience and bloodlust. He'd sensed us coming. Of course he had.
He's waiting. Let's give the clown a proper greeting after so long, I sent Sylvie, the thought laced with grim, acidic sarcasm. This wasn't reunion; it was reckoning.
'Grey, you are too reckless!' Sylvie chastised, her mental voice sharp with protective fear. She knew the stakes, the raw power radiating from below.
No, Sylv, I countered, the resolve hardening like diamond within me. I'm as reckless as I need to be.
The years of King Grey's calculated coldness, the suppression of anything resembling vulnerability, felt like a distant dream. Agrona had stolen my first life, manipulated my second, and threatened everything I now held dear.
For years, I'd been a leaf in his hurricane. Now, finally, I had the strength, the means, tempered by Epheotus's trials, to fight back. To truly hurt him.
Standing still, playing defense, wasn't an option anymore. Not when the cost of failure was etched onto every scorched hill, every fallen soldier below.
Especially now… The thought bloomed unbidden, warm and terrifying amidst the cold fury. Especially now that I have a real reason to fight and survive.
Tessia's face filled my mind—not the poised princess Cynthia presented five years ago, asking me to guide her through the Beast Glades, but the fierce, resilient, achingly real woman she'd become.
The one who challenged my cynicism, who saw past the King Grey facade. The one whose laughter could momentarily silence the war drums in my head, whose touch felt like grounding lightning.
That first meeting… I'd dismissed her as something similar to a storybook figure, a naive princess of a fairytale.
But somewhere between the Beast Glades' dangers and shared burdens, between her unwavering belief and the quiet moments stolen amidst the chaos… I'd fallen.
Not gradually, but with the sudden, terrifying clarity of a lightning strike. Love. A word King Grey would have scorned, a vulnerability I hadn't lived like a real person long enough to fully grasp.
It wasn't just affection; it was an anchor, a blazing star in the encroaching dark, making the prospect of loss unbearable, fueling the fight with a desperation far deeper than duty or vengeance.
'You've finally admitted it!' Sylvie's mental cry was a burst of pure, fierce joy, momentarily eclipsing the dread. She halted her flight, massive wings beating the smoky air to hold us suspended high above the Alacryan camp, directly over the waiting Scythe.
Her draconic head turned slightly, one immense, luminous eye fixing on me, radiating approval and shared understanding.
I did… The acknowledgment washed over me, a bittersweet tide. Alongside the fierce protectiveness, the burning need to preserve that fragile happiness, came another, older sensation, sharp and cold: fear. True, visceral fear. Not of death—I'd danced with that specter too often in both lives.
Fear of losing. Losing Tessia, losing Sylvie and Corvis, losing this fragile chance at a life not defined by Agrona's machinations. It was a fear King Grey had buried deep, armored in ice.
Now, it flooded me, a chilling counterpoint to the white-core fire blazing in my veins. This vulnerability, this terrifying stake in the world, was the price of the love that fueled me. It made me stronger, yet infinitely more fragile.
I met Sylvie's gaze, a silent understanding passing between us. The time for hovering, for reflection, was over. Dragoth waited, a monument to Agrona's power and cruelty. Tessia fought elsewhere, trusting me. Dicathen bled below.
"Let's go, Sylvie." The words were simple, final. A command, a promise, a farewell to hesitation.
I stepped off her scaled back into the void. The world vanished in a rush of wind and gravity. My hair whipped violently, the roar of the plummet drowning out the distant battle cries. The earth rushed up with terrifying speed, Dragoth's figure resolving from a blot to a distinct, horned silhouette radiating violent anticipation.
As I fell, a streak determination against the smoke-stained sky, my hand snapped to the regalia on my back. Mana surged, pure and focused. With a sound like a shard of frozen lightning being drawn, Dawn's Ballad materialized in my grasp. The teal blade hummed, resonating with the mana core within me, an extension of my the desperate, precious love I fought for.
———
The air itself seemed to recoil from the monstrosity standing before me. Dragoth Vritra was tall, no, he was a monument to brute force, swollen by his own vile magic to nearly three meters, his frame broader than Corvis' bond. Bald head gleaming under the sickly light filtering through the battle-smoke, a thick, coarse black beard framed a jaw set in a permanent, deranged grin.
But it was the eyes that held you—burning coals of malevolent crimson, devoid of anything resembling sanity or mercy, set beneath massive, curving black horns like a demonic bull.
He radiated power like a physical pressure, the corrupted earth beneath his bare feet cracking under his sheer presence.
Arms folded across his barrel chest, chin tilted arrogantly, he surveyed me as I landed, Sylvie circling high above like a watchful shadow.
A low, rumbling chuckle started in his chest, building into a thunderous boom that echoed across the momentarily stunned battlefield nearby.
"Little Grey!" His voice was like rocks grinding in a landslide, unpleasant and jarring. "Are you tired of playing with lessers?!"
The self-amusement was palpable, thick and cloying as the miasma rising from the Beast Glades. He cracked another laugh, the sound grating on my nerves like rusty nails.
"You never cease to be a fool," I stated, the words cold and flat, belying the storm gathering within. Dawn's Ballad materialized in my hand with a thought, the familiar weight a grounding anchor. Teal lightning sparked and crackled along its length, bathing my face in its eerie glow. The air hummed with pent-up energy.
Dragoth's grin widened, showing too many large, yellowed teeth. "That's what I liked about you, Little Grey! Even though you are a bit too similar to Cadell." His burning gaze flicked to my blade. "But honestly? I have no intentions of fighting you. Not really. This continent?"
He waved a dismissive hand, the motion causing a small shockwave. "Boring. No fun fights. No real entertainment. Just weaklings breaking. I'd rather just go home."
His words were like oil on the fire of my fury. Home. To Alacrya. To Agrona. To the place that twisted Nico and stole my new life. Talking was a trap, a way for this brute to unbalance me. He thrived on chaos, on provoking a reckless charge.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer. Instead, I moved. Mana surged through my legs, a controlled explosion of force that launched me forward like a silver-blue comet trailing lightning. Dawn's Ballad, wreathed in crackling energy, aimed straight for his colossal chest.
His red eyes widened fractionally, not with fear, but with savage delight. That mad smile split his face anew. With shocking speed for his size, his massive warhammer—a crude, brutal slab of dark metal—materialized in his grip. He didn't just block; he welcomed the impact.
Jerking his torso back like a miner setting a pickaxe, he met my blade with his hammer head-on.
BOOM!
The sound was heard for hundreds of meters and felt all around us, by the ground, the air and the few Alacryans still nearby that either fainted or got scrambled like a ragdoll.
A concussive wave ripped outwards, flattening nearby scrub and sending loose rocks skittering. The shockwave traveled up my arm, an hammer blow threatening to shatter bone and liquefy muscle.
I gritted my teeth, recalling Corvis's meticulous explanation of kinetic redirection—earth affinity acting as a conduit, channeling the impossible force down, through my stance, into the ravaged ground beneath my feet.
The earth cratered slightly around me, absorbing the punishment, leaving me shaken but miraculously unharmed. Without that knowledge, my arm would be pulp.
Dragoth let out another booming laugh, the sound vibrating in my teeth. "You have grown stronger, Little Grey!" His voice remained an assault on the senses. "Good! Maybe we won't waste our time in this charade after all!"
He was right. Soulfire, potent against lesser beings, would likely just annoy a Scythe's innate Vritra resistance. Raw, focused elemental power was the key. Realmheart flared within me. The world dissolved into a symphony of swirling mana particles.
My own transformation surged—horns of pure black sprouted from my temples, stark against the white hair that now whipped around my face. I channeled pure destructive intent into another blindingly fast slash, aiming for the massive tendons in his hammer arm.
He met it again, the impact jarring, but this time, I was ready. As the shock reverberated, Dragoth slammed his right foot down with earth-shattering force. CRUNCH! The ground heaved. Blood Iron! Thick, obsidian spikes, jagged and cruel, erupted from the cracked earth directly beneath my feet, aiming to impale me from below.
'Grey! I'm coming!' Sylvie's mental cry was sharp with protective fury.
No! I shot back, the command iron-clad. He doesn't expect you. Not yet. Stay high. Finish him when I say so.
I felt her hesitation, a wave of fierce concern battling her absolute trust. She held position.
Instinct, amplified by Realmheart's hyper-awareness, screamed the trajectory of the spikes.
One massive pillar of black metal speared upwards with lethal speed. Instead of dodging sideways—potentially into another—I reacted. My free hand snapped out.
Water particles, drawn from the damp air and the lingering smoke, coalesced instantly. Ice magic, honed to razor sharpness by Wren's relentless drills, flashed. A sheath of glacial blue encased the rising spike mere inches from my boots, freezing it solid mid-lunge. I kicked off the frozen obstruction, flipping backwards to gain distance.
"Oh, always the tricky one!" Dragoth bellowed, genuinely amused, as he surged forward, his warhammer already descending in a brutal overhead arc. I parried again, the shockwave rattling my teeth, the sheer weight behind the blow threatening to drive me into the ground. "I have always found you much more interesting than the other reincarnate, Little Nico."
The name was a red-hot brand pressed against my soul. Nico. Trapped. Manipulated. Used. "Don't say my friend's name," I growled, the ice in my voice barely containing the volcano beneath. I owed him rescue, not this mockery.
"Oh?" Dragoth leered, effortlessly pressing his advantage, forcing me back step by jarring step with hammer blows that cratered the earth where they missed. "Is Little Grey getting emotional?"
Each clash sent visible shockwaves through the air, cracking the ground beneath us, uprooting stunted trees, and sending debris flying like shrapnel.
"You could return to Alacrya, you know? The High Sovereign might even forgive you…" His grin turned obscenely suggestive. "...especially if you bring him that new elven pet you made. Corvis Eralith."
White-hot, blinding rage surged through me, momentarily eclipsing strategy, eclipsing pain. Corvis. My friend. My brother in all but blood. Reduced to a pet in this brute's mouth. The lightning on Dawn's Ballad flared violently, spitting angry sparks. I saw red—not just Dragoth's eyes, but the pure, incandescent fury threatening to consume me.
Calm down, Grey! The command screamed in my own mind, a desperate counterpoint to the roaring inferno. He wants this! The Vritras feed on it! Even though this clown isn't doing it on purpose.
Wren Kain's gravelly voice surfaced from memory, cutting through the haze: "I am not a swordsman, but I can tell you are excellent at it. Yet technique and power alone won't get you anywhere if you lack creativity."
And overlaying it, Corvis's own pragmatic wisdom: "The secret of a conjurer is being unpredictable. Take me. I am weak, yet I win because my magic is different."
Creativity. Unpredictability. I channeled the rage, not into a wild swing, but into focused power. Fire erupted along Dawn's Ballad's length—not only simple elemental fire, but fire infused with the volatile lightning still crackling around it.
A swirling vortex of orange flame and yellow-white electricity coalesced at the blade's tip. With a roar that tore from my throat, I unleashed it—a sizzling, roaring arc of dual-elemental annihilation screaming towards Dragoth's chest.
His crimson eyes widened, not in dread, but surprise. He reacted with shocking speed for his bulk, swinging the warhammer not to block, but to absorb. Void Wind, a decay deviant of wind magic that consumed and nullified, whirled around the hammer head like a miniature black hole.
My devastating arc slammed into it, the flames and lightning writhing, screaming, before being violently sucked inward and then blasted harmlessly upwards into the smoke-choked sky in a spectacular, impotent flare.
I clicked my tongue, frustration warring with grim acknowledgment. I could match his strength blow-for-blow, thanks to my previous life's experience, Wren's training and my lessuran physique, but overpowering his defenses head-on? Not yet.
"And here I thought you might see reason," Dragoth sighed theatrically, hefting his hammer again. "Could've been a Scythe, Little Grey. Or a Retainer, at least. You know, I can't suffer my own Retainer. Uto…" He chuckled darkly. "Way too engrossed in that sadistic pleasure of his. It gets boring quickly."
"I am not your therapist, Dragoth," I shot back, already moving. He was right. I was relying too much on the blade. As I parried his next bone-jarring hammer swing with Dawn's Ballad in my right hand, my left snapped forward.
Pure wind mana, compressed and accelerated to hypersonic speeds by Realmheart's pinpoint efficiency, coalesced into a howling, invisible projectile the size of my fist. It wasn't meant to kill: especially not a Scythe; it was a scalpel, a distraction.
It struck Dragoth's massive bicep as he recovered from his swing. Not a deep wound, but a visible gash appeared, welling dark blood. He glanced at it, then back at me, that insane grin returning.
"Not bad…" he rumbled, a note of genuine acknowledgment beneath the mockery. "But you are still wet behind your ears, Little Grey."
Suddenly, he moved. Not with surprising speed this time, but with terrifying, deliberate power. He raised the warhammer high above his head, the massive head eclipsing the dim sun, casting me into deep shadow. Instinct, honed by Realmheart Physique's precognitive flicker, screamed DANGER!
I didn't think; I blurred sideways using Burst Step, the familiar agony lancing through my legs as mana detonated within them.
KRA-KOOM!!!
The world exploded behind me. Where I'd stood a fraction of a second before, the earth simply… ceased to exist.
A crater thirty feet wide erupted, vomiting tons of soil, rock, and shattered roots into the air. The shockwave hit me like a physical wall, throwing me forward despite my augmented strength. Dust and debris choked the air.
He wouldn't get another shot like that. I landed, spun, and unleashed a barrage. Not with the sword, but with pure, razor-sharp wind. Realmheart's efficiency allowed me to fire gale-force slashes one after another, minimal cost, maximal speed.
Whoosh! Whoosh! WHOOSH!
The air screamed as invisible blades tore towards the dust cloud surrounding Dragoth.
The first slash struck true, carving a shallow furrow across his chest plate, drawing a fresh bead of dark blood. The second, third, and fourth met a sudden, thicket of obsidian spikes—Blood Iron erupting from the ground like a grotesque black forest, forming an instant, jagged shield. My wind blades shattered against them, howling into nothingness.
Dragoth's laughter boomed from within the makeshift fortification. "Persistent, Little Grey! I'd even say you really want me dead!" The spikes retracted as swiftly as they'd appeared, revealing him unharmed, his grin wider than ever. "Good! Makes it more fun!"
Before the last word faded, he was airborne. Not flying, but leaping with impossible power for his mass. He soared high, warhammer held high with both hands, elbows tucked in, body coiling like a spring.
He wasn't aiming for the ground near me; he was aiming for me. The descent was terrifyingly fast, the warhammer poised for a blow that would turn anything organic into paste.
Too fast! The thought flashed, panic icy in my veins. He moved like Corvis's Barbarossa—immense power channeled with shocking agility. Barriers? Too slow, possibly too weak. Flight? Leaving my back exposed mid-air was suicide.
There was only one option. Static Void.
The world froze. The roar of battle silenced. Dust hung motionless in the air. Dragoth hung suspended above me, a colossal statue of impending doom, the warhammer a dark eclipse inches from beginning its terminal descent. The strain of holding the temporal stasis pressed against my mind like a vice, but I pushed through.
I didn't step away; I flashed using Burst Step again, the agony in my legs a white-hot counterpoint to the frozen silence, reappearing a hundred feet behind Dragoth's frozen form.
Dawn's Ballad glowed in my hands as I poured mana into it—not fire, not lightning, but the biting cold of absolute zero ice, intertwined with the searing, soul-searing essence of Soulfire. A paradox forged in desperation.
The instant Static Void released, the universe snapped back into furious motion with a sound like tearing fabric.
CRUMBLE!!!!
Where Dragoth landed, it wasn't an impact; it was an apocalypse. The earth didn't crater; it vomited. A massive, ragged wound tore open in the landscape, easily fifty feet across.
A plume of dirt, rock, and pulverized debris exploded upwards, higher than the Wall itself, blotting out the sky. The shockwave hit like a catastrophic tsunami, throwing me back despite my braced stance, the sound a deafening roar that drowned out all thought. A thick, impenetrable fog of dust swallowed everything.
Blindness was death. I reacted instantly, snapping my free hand out. A sphere of compressed, whirling air burst from me, expanding violently, tearing through the choking dust cloud, clearing a temporary bubble of visibility around me. My senses, stretched to their limit by Realmheart, screamed a warning.
Left!
I pivoted, Dawn's Ballad coming up defensively, just as Dragoth materialized from the swirling grime like a vengeful mountain. He hadn't been thrown; he'd used the chaos, the debris, as cover. He was already mid-charge, covering the distance between us in two terrifyingly long strides.
"Little Grey!" he bellowed, spittle flying, eyes burning with manic fury. "Don't think you can run now that I've finally decided to give you my full attention!"
He stopped dead, less than twenty feet away. Instead of charging, he spun. Using his entire titanic frame as leverage, he hurled the warhammer.
Not a clumsy toss, but a terrifyingly precise, flat trajectory throw, like a discus of annihilation. It screamed through the air, aimed directly at my center mass, too fast, too heavy to parry without shattering every bone in my body.
Options flashed, calculated in nanoseconds:
Dodging meant risking exposing myself to his follow-up, which would be immediate and lethal. To use a barrier of Blood Iron or any other element was to gamble its integrity against a Scythe's thrown weapon. Likely fatal failure. And if I took flight I would become a vulnerable and perfect target for Dragoth.
Unpredictable. Corvis's voice echoed. I chose none of the obvious paths. My foot slammed down. Earth magic surged. Not a barrier, but a platform. A thick pillar of rock and compacted dirt erupted beneath my feet, launching me vertically just as the warhammer blurred through the space I'd occupied.
The wind of its passage ripped at my clothes. I used the momentum, twisting in mid-air, landing lightly beside Dragoth, not behind, not ahead—flanking him.
"You keep dodging, Little Grey," he rumbled, turning with surprising speed, his warhammer already reappearing in his grasp as if summoned from the void itself. "We are not going anywhere fun like this!"
He raised the hammer again, the motion telegraphing another crushing overhead blow. This was it. The opening I'd waited for, the moment of commitment.
Sylvie! The mental command was a silent scream. NOW! Dive on my mark!
'YES!' Her response was instant, fierce, trusting.
As Dragoth's muscles coiled for the downward smash, I triggered it. Static Void.
Time froze once more. Dragoth was locked in the act of raising the hammer, his expression one of brutal anticipation. The swirling dust hung still. Silence, profound and absolute.
I didn't hesitate. Burst Step flared, agony screaming up my legs as I crossed the frozen space in an instant, appearing directly behind the colossal Scythe.
Dawn's Ballad was already a nexus of conflicting power—the glacial, life-numbing cold of absolute zero ice sheathing the blade, interwoven with the searing, soul-consuming white fire of Soulfire.
The Bloodfrost Hex. I poured everything into it—mana, will, fury, the desperate need to protect everything this monster threatened.
The instant time snapped back, two things happened simultaneously:
My beloved Sylvie, a black-scaled comet in the shape lf a dragon wreathed in violet aether, plummeted from the sky with terrifying speed and precision, aiming not just at Dragoth, but through the space he occupied.
On the other hand—ignoring the white-hot agony in my legs—I triggered one final, desperate Burst Step, into Dragoth's blind spot, driving Dawn's Ballad with all my augmented strength, all my white-core power, straight into the center of his broad, unprotected back.
BLOODFROST HEX! The mental scream tore through me as the blade sank deep.
Ice met Soulfire. Soulfire met Vritra flesh. An explosion of conflicting energies—freezing and burning, corporeal and ethereal—detonated inside Dragoth's body at the moment of impact. A choked, guttural roar of shock and agony, unlike anything I'd ever heard from him, erupted from his throat.
And then Sylvie hit.
CRASH!
Just like Dragoth few moments prior what happened wasn't a mere impact; it was a localized and almost surgical earthquake. Sylvie's draconic mass, propelled by her dive and amplified by protective fury, slammed onto Dragoth with the force of a falling mountain.
The ground, already shattered by his earlier strike, simply gave way. A new, massive crater erupted, easily eclipsing the first, swallowing Dragoth and Sylvie whole in a cataclysm of sound, light, and flying earth.
A shockwave, visible as a ripple in the very air, blasted outwards, flattening everything for many, many meters. I was thrown back like a leaf in a hurricane, tumbling head over heels, Dawn's Ballad nearly wrenched from my grasp.
I hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop, gasping, ears ringing, vision blurry from the concussive force and the dust now thicker than ever.
Silence. A ringing, oppressive silence, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the wider battle and the settling patter of dirt and rock.
The dust swirled, a thick, impenetrable curtain over the massive new scar in the earth. My legs screamed in protest from being overused.
My mana core felt dangerously depleted. I pushed myself up onto one elbow, squinting into the murk, Realmheart straining to pierce the obscuring cloud, searching for any sign of movement within the crater's depths.
Was it enough? Could anything survive that?
'Grey…' Sylvie's mental voice reached me, strained, tinged with pain… and something else. A sharp spike of alarm. 'He's…!'